


Where Two Dead Ends Meet

by ThereIsNoTragedyInThat



Series: Somewhere Between Kansas and the Open Road [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bottom Mick Davies, Don't copy to another site, Feelings, Implied/Referenced Sex, Introspection, Love/Hate, M/M, Oh My God
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 06:01:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21113867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThereIsNoTragedyInThat/pseuds/ThereIsNoTragedyInThat
Summary: Mick couldn't seem to learn from this mistake.





	Where Two Dead Ends Meet

Mick had a long history of learning from his mistakes. Growing up with a heroine addicted mother meant learning to walk quietly and turn his presence into something unobtrusive. Transitioning onto the streets meant keeping your head down and your knife sharp or risk falling on the wrong side of a gang or a foster home. Being brought to Kendricks Academy taught him that mistakes cost not only his own life, but those of so many others. Mick had always been a fast learner and he had soared to the top of his class with memories of cold nights and dead eyes haunting his sleep.

Simply not doing so had never been an option.

Yet, for all of that, this seemed to be one mistake he couldn’t stop himself from making, couldn’t run away or learn from. Biting his lip, Mick carefully lowered his feet onto the chilly floor of their headquarters. He moved fluidly so as not to wake the man still tangled in messy sheets, breathing softly.

Redressing came with practiced ease in the same way slipping out the door and walking down the hallway with his head held high came to him. Even though each step introduced aching pain in his ass and the creaking of an old, overused heart, Mick didn’t dare drop his posture or appear any less then impeccable. Appearances were important, especially now with the entire base on high alert.

America wasn’t what any of them had expected.

His room, mercifully, was only six doors down. He counted them off in his head, using it to distract from the bruises on his hips and the stinging scratches on his back. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

Mick pretended his hand wasn’t shaking as he pressed his thumb to the identification pad. Pretended his eyes didn’t burn with unshed tears as the camera to his left zoomed in to make sure. The door clicked open and he’d deny it to his last breath that he practically ran inside.

He was greeted by a cold, barren room. His bed made with military precision mocked him with its empty sheets. Mick didn’t bother trying to make it that far, sliding against the door until he was crumpled against the floor.

Despite the emotion rising up inside him, Mick didn’t cry. He had sworn a long time ago he was done crying over Arthur Ketch. All the same, he found himself staring down at pale wrists, only beginning to darken with bruises. The purpling marks swirled around in thick bands where only thirty minutes prior, belts had secured him to the headboard. A shiver slid down Mick’s spine at the remembered sensation of whispers in his ear and scorching lips traveling across his heaving chest.

Yeah. Tonight, had been a mistake. Just like every night that Ketch showed up at his door with dark eyes and a twisted frown, seeking some kind of absolution. That hadn’t changed since they were children. Mick still remembered nights curled up in a small twin bed, sated and sweaty, tracing patterns on skin glistening in the moonlight.

He remembered Arthur’s tears and his laughter. He remembered promises and blood. He remembered a love not yet twisted by a life where duty came before all else, a life before Kendricks had stolen what it meant to have a heart.

Only monsters could kill monsters.

Arthur was fond of that saying

Mick had thought graduation would be the end of it, he should have known better. They always seemed to find each other and when they did, they made the same mistakes over and over and over again. He shook his head and forced himself to get up off the floor with a groan. Wallowing had never done any good for anyone.

Moving towards the bed, he turned on the bedside lamp and grabbed the large file, currently bursting with colourful papers and photos. Sitting gingerly, Mick opened it and stared down at the photo most recently added and the report attached to it.

Magda, her name had been. A telekinetic it seemed and one with violent past and a high likely hood of committing more. Mick forced himself to stare at the picture of the young girl, crumpled on the bathroom floor with a small pool of blood slipping onto the tiles until he no longer felt the lingering need to vomit.

Ketch had delivered it before promptly grabbing hold of his arm and dragging him to his bedroom. It wasn’t a surprise and although it was wrong, Mick couldn’t help the small inkling of relief that trickled into his heart. Sometimes, on very rare occasions, Ketch would have to do something so unseeingly, so disturbing, that it manages to sear itself into his icy heart. That realization, the thought that Ketch had fucked him in a poor attempt at seeking comfort, was infinitely reassuring, that maybe, just maybe, the monster hadn’t won him over quite yet.

There was an obnoxious buzzing from the phone in his pocket and with a sigh, Mick fished out the offending thing. He stared down at the screen, lit up with several routine notifications and the additions of three new meetings to his schedule the following day.

Those weren’t what caught his eye, however. No, it was the one buried among the madness, it was the one that came from an unknown number and simply read:

I’m sorry.


End file.
